Daughters of Castle Deverill Read online

  Celia and Kitty sat on the terrace as the sun set and the shadows grew longer, eating into the light on the lawn and climbing up the castle walls like demons. Wrapped in shawls they cradled mugs of Adeline’s cannabis tea, which Celia had found very effective in dulling her pain. They listened to the clamour of roosting birds and the desolate cry of a lone seagull wheeling on the wind above them.

  ‘I thought I had had my fair share of sorrow after George was killed,’ said Celia quietly. ‘But it can come at any moment, can’t it, and take everything away.’

  ‘Oh Celia, I can’t stop asking myself, “Why?” ’

  ‘Believe me, I have chewed on that word so much I’m surprised it still exists. I know why he did it, I just don’t understand it. At no point did he tell me to stop spending. Never once did he deny me anything. I’d give it all back, all of it, if we could rewind the clock and start again. I love this place, but I could have curbed my ambition. I know that now.’

  ‘You couldn’t have foreseen this,’ said Kitty kindly.

  ‘That’s what makes me angry. Why didn’t he warn me? He didn’t even try.’ Celia’s voice cracked. She paused, giving herself time to overcome her emotions. Kitty sipped her tea and waited. The seagull flew away, taking his sad call with him. The shadows began to blend into dusk. Soon the night would creep in, bringing Celia face to face with her fears, which was why Kitty now stayed with her so often; she was frightened to sleep on her own. ‘He didn’t give me warning. We could have resolved it together, but he baled out, leaving me alone. Leaving his children fatherless. How could he be such a coward?’ Kitty didn’t know what to say. Celia had never called Archie ‘a coward’ before. ‘I mean, a real man would never do that to his wife and children. A real man would have sat me down and told me the situation. But Archie wasn’t a real man. All the while I was blithely spending, splashing out on the castle and paintings from Italy, he was facing financial ruin. God, Kitty, it makes me so angry.’ She knocked back her tea and gulped. ‘When I think of him now I don’t feel bereaved, I feel betrayed.’ She laughed manically. ‘If you see him, you can tell him how cross I am.’

  ‘You can tell him yourself, Celia. I’m sure he’s watching you and wishing he hadn’t caused you such pain.’

  ‘Is he in Hell?’ Celia asked softly. ‘Reverend Maddox would tell me it’s a terrible sin to take one’s own life. He’d say Archie is in Hell.’

  ‘But God is forgiving, Celia.’

  ‘Well I’m not. Not yet.’ She sighed loudly and drained her mug. ‘So, I’m selling the contents of the castle. Boysie has put me in touch with a Mr Brickworth who is coming over from London to value everything and then he’s going to put it all into a big, glossy catalogue which everyone in London will see. It’s embarrassing, but what can I do?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Kitty. ‘But perhaps this way you won’t have to sell the castle itself.’

  ‘I’ll have to sleep on a mattress on the floor. It’s ridiculous. Is it worth it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Life is too short. Sell up and move on.’ Kitty smiled sorrowfully. ‘I could say “it’s only a castle”, but you know as well as I do that it’s so much more than that.’

  ‘It’s everything to me,’ said Celia, her eyes wide and shiny. ‘Everything.’

  ‘It’s everything to me too,’ Kitty rejoined. She watched Celia pick up the teapot and refill her mug.

  ‘Shall we just get intoxicated tonight and forget our woes?’

  Kitty held out her mug. ‘Why not?’ she said.

  Chapter 22

  Digby stood by the window of his study and looked furtively out onto the driveway, and beyond, to the wide avenue of leafy plane trees that ran for almost half a mile from Kensington to Notting Hill. It was, without doubt, one of the most exclusive streets in London and he was proud to live on it. He reflected on his rather less ostentatious beginnings. The youngest son of an old landed family fallen on hard times, he was always aware that his parents were more interested in climbing the social ladder than in him. Desperate to escape his mother’s stifling world, he had set out to South Africa to make his own fortune in the diamond mines. There he had lived in tents, suffered the dust and heat of summer and the crippling cold of winter and yet, somehow, found in himself a strength he hadn’t known he had. As he slid his eyes up and down the road, his mind wandered back to the South African diamond mines. He had been lucky, but to a certain extent he had made his own luck – after all, God only helps those who help themselves. Then a movement in the street caught his attention.

  It was him again, standing on the opposite side of the street wearing a hat pulled low over his face, a long shabby coat and tie, a newspaper folded under his arm. He was smoking languidly, as if he had all the time in the world. Digby chuckled without mirth; if it wasn’t so dire it would be funny. He looked like a comedy crook, standing there in the shadows. Well, Digby thought resolutely, he’s not going to intimidate me. Let him do his worst and see where it gets him. But, underneath his bravado, he didn’t feel quite as strong or confident as he appeared. There had been a time when he had felt indomitable, but as the years went by his confidence was gradually being eroded by loss: loss of the people he loved, loss of his youth, loss of his sense of invulnerability, and of immortality. In the old days a man like Aurelius Dupree would barely have rattled his cage. Now, however . . .

  Digby had not only built a business, he had built a reputation. He was a pillar of the community, a contributor to the Conservative Party. He counted royalty, politicians and aristocrats among his friends. Not only did he give generously to charity but he supported the arts too. He was one of the main benefactors of the Royal Opera House, for Beatrice loved opera and ballet and attended often, frequently invited to watch from the Royal Box. He was on various committees and a member of elite clubs like White’s. Of course he also had his racing commitments and since winning the Derby he was a man to be reckoned with – Lucky Deverill now commanded serious covering fees. Digby took pride in his seemingly unfaltering talent for making money. He was a gambler, a speculator, a risk-taker and most often his schemes paid off. But a man could only make so much luck. He was considering trying his hand at politics. Randlords weren’t quite respectable but he was overcoming that with his charm and money. Perhaps he would buy a newspaper like his friend Lord Beaverbrook and get into politics that way. If it wasn’t for Aurelius Dupree, he thought irritably, nothing would hold me back.

  Digby watched him in the road. He looked like he had no intention of going anywhere – and he was watching Digby right back. Indeed, the two men were staring at each other like a pair of bulls, neither wanting to show weakness by being the first to look away. However, Digby had better things to do than compete in a stand-off, so he withdrew and called for his driver to take him to his club. It was a beautiful summer’s day, but Digby didn’t want to risk walking through the park to St James’s on account of Aurelius Dupree. The man could write letters to his heart’s content, but Digby would never permit him an audience. Standing outside his house was the nearest he was going to get and with any luck, he’d see the futility of it and crawl back under the rock from where he’d come.

  Harry and Boysie met for lunch at White’s. It had been six months since Charlotte had permitted her husband to see his old friend again and the two of them met frequently, careful not to slip back into their morning trysts in Soho. Charlotte had given their friendship her blessing, but she hadn’t said they could sleep together, even though she hadn’t specifically prohibited it. Harry felt he owed her a deep debt of gratitude for her tolerance, a debt which would be quite wrong to repay by jumping into Boysie’s bed. If this was all that was permitted, they were both accepting of it. Harry was just happy to breathe the same air as Boysie. He told himself that he didn’t need to make love to him. But as the months passed the challenge to keep their distance grew ever greater.

  They sat in the dining room, surrounded by familiar faces, for all the most distinguished me
n in London were members of White’s. But Boysie and Harry only had eyes for each other. ‘It is better to be ignorant like Deirdre,’ said Boysie. ‘It’s perfectly feasible to be happy that way.’

  ‘Charlotte is happy that we are friends again,’ said Harry firmly.

  ‘But she’s watching you, make no mistake. She’s watching your every move. One slip and you’re in serious trouble, old boy.’ Boysie chuckled but his eyes betrayed his sadness. ‘Is this all it’s ever going to be?’

  Harry looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t know.’

  Boysie sighed in that nonchalant way of his and pouted petulantly. ‘I’m not sure I can stand it.’

  ‘You have to stand it,’ Harry said in alarm. ‘It’s all we’re allowed. It’s better than nothing. I couldn’t live with nothing.’

  ‘After Archie did himself in I’m sure Charlotte has come to realize that.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Would you really kill yourself for me?’ he asked, leaning across the table, his pretty green eyes melting into Harry’s.

  ‘I thought about it,’ Harry replied quietly.

  ‘Don’t ever do it,’ said Boysie. ‘Because I don’t have the courage and I certainly couldn’t live without you. You won’t go and leave me on my own, will you?’

  Harry smiled. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then. A weight off my shoulders. You know that hotel in Soho is still there. No one would ever know. Not even Charlotte with her spying would know to look there.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Harry hissed, glancing anxiously to his left and right for fear of being overheard.

  ‘You know, Celia has told me that someone has made her an offer to buy the castle, lock, stock and barrel,’ said Boysie, changing the subject because Harry’s reaction to that suggestion remained always the same. ‘News travels fast.’

  Harry’s eyes widened. ‘When did she tell you?’

  ‘This morning. She telephoned.’

  ‘Well? What did she say? Is she going to sell it?’ Harry looked horrified.

  ‘Of course she’s not going to sell it. She adores it. She’s just going to sell the contents. Most of them. I’m sure she’ll keep a bed or two.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘It’s desperate. I can’t bear it for her. She’s terribly lonely without Archie.’

  ‘Darling, she’s lost more than Archie. She’s lost her joie de vivre. Her esprit. I think we should persuade her to come to London for a while. She needs to get out, to see people, to remember who she really is.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be a widow,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘Unless she’s a merry widow. We’ll remind her of her merry side, won’t we, old boy.’

  ‘God, they were good old times,’ Harry sighed. They began to reminisce wistfully about their lives before Deirdre and Charlotte had stepped in to complicate them.

  Presently, Digby walked into the dining room with a great kerfuffle. With his flashing white teeth, his slicked-back blond hair and his diamond shirt studs, he greeted his friends loudly as he moved through the tables, finding something witty or charming to say to everyone. Harry and Boysie suspended their conversation to watch as he made his way towards them, his flamboyant attire and vibrant personality creating amusement and comment among the members of this most conventional of clubs.

  ‘Ah, boys,’ Digby said when he reached their table. ‘At least there is one place in London where we are sure to be free of our wives.’ He laughed without realizing how true his words were to Boysie and Harry and moved on to where his guests awaited him.

  Grace knocked on the door of the Doyle farmhouse. It was the first time she had ever visited for during the War of Independence she and Michael had met either at her house or Badger Hanratty’s barn in the hills. As she pushed it open her heart accelerated at the thought of seeing Michael, ‘the Pope’, whose piety repulsed her but whose physicality still thrilled her. She could feel his presence for his energy vibrated strongly, like a strain of music permeating every inch of the farm, and her excitement mounted. She heard a voice and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw an elderly woman sitting on a chair by the hearth.

  ‘Good day,’ said Grace and the elderly woman raised her hooded eyes and her cadaverous face registered surprise. Old Mrs Nagle had not been expecting a lady to step into their humble dwelling. ‘My name is Lady Rowan-Hampton. I’ve come to see Mrs Doyle.’

  A moment later Mrs Doyle appeared at the bottom of the staircase. She stepped into the room, wringing her hands nervously. She was smaller than Grace remembered, her skin as lined as a map, her round black eyes the same colour as Michael’s. She nodded curtly. ‘Good morning, milady,’ she said.

  ‘Father Quinn . . .’ Grace began a little anxiously. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was here, besides Michael, of course. That was the reason she had come, after all.

  ‘Oh, Father Quinn, yes, he did emphasize discretion. You can be sure that Mam and I won’t breathe a word, so help me God.’ She looked unsure of what to do next, then remembering her manners she offered Grace a seat at the table. ‘Would you like tea, milady? The kettle is hot.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be lovely,’ said Grace, sitting down. She could smell Michael, as if he had only a moment ago stood before her, dwarfing the room with his wide shoulders and powerful authority. She wondered where he had gone and whether he’d be coming back soon. She didn’t know how long she could sustain talking to his mother about God.

  Mrs Doyle placed a basin of tea and a plate of currant soda bread on the table in front of her and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. She waited for Grace to begin. Grace wrenched her thoughts away from Michael and tried to concentrate on the charade. She had no wish to convert to Catholicism, but if that’s what it took to win Michael’s heart she’d go the whole way and beyond.

  ‘As Father Quinn will have told you, I would like to become a Catholic,’ she said. ‘This will be against the wishes of my family, but I feel I am being called, Mrs Doyle, and I want to answer that call.’

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ Mrs Doyle asked with a frown.

  ‘I want to know what it means to live a Catholic life. Father Quinn suggested you as a role model. You are a good Catholic, Mrs Doyle. I would like you to set me an example.’

  Mrs Doyle’s face relaxed when she realized that was all that was expected of her. She certainly believed herself to be a good Catholic and was happy to tell Lady Rowan-Hampton how she lived a pious life. ‘Shall I—’ Mrs Doyle began but Grace interrupted.

  ‘Tell me about your life from the beginning, yes, that would be most interesting. What was it like growing up a Catholic?’ Mrs Doyle began to reminisce and Grace’s mind wandered through the house in search of Michael. Old Mrs Nagle had fallen asleep in her chair and her head had slumped forward like a rag doll’s. A dribble escaped one corner of her mouth and ran down the grey hairs of her chin, dropping onto the loose fabric about her scrawny chest. Mrs Doyle warmed to her subject. She spoke of the angelus, her daily prayers, the rosary, Mass and the little things she did every day that were all part of her devotion. Grace listened with half an ear, nodding when appropriate. With one eye on the door she let Mrs Doyle talk on, silently willing that door to open and Michael to stride in.

  When Mrs Doyle finally drew breath Grace had finished her tea. The room had grown a little darker and Old Mrs Nagle had woken herself up with a snort. Grace realized that she couldn’t stay any longer. She didn’t think she could endure a minute more of Mrs Doyle’s flat voice and her piety. Then the door was flung open and she knew it was Michael even before she saw him. She pushed out her chair and jumped to her feet, forgetting for a moment that Old Mrs Nagle and Mrs Doyle were watching her with fascination, as if she were a rare bird that had chosen to mingle with geese.

  Michael stared at her in surprise. He had seen her car parked outside and wondered what the devil she was doing in his house. Had she gone mad? ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said and his tone demanded an explana
tion.

  Grace smiled sweetly. ‘Hello, Mr Doyle.’ She relished holding him in suspense for a moment.

  He looked at his mother, who had now pushed herself to her feet. ‘Lady Rowan-Hampton and I have much to talk about,’ she said and, true to her word, she was careful to be discreet.

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ she said, making for the fireplace. ‘I will boil the kettle.’

  ‘I must be going,’ said Grace. Her mood had lifted considerably. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Doyle. I really appreciate your time. Might we perhaps be able to meet again?’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mrs Doyle, flattered. She had enjoyed talking about herself to someone who listened with such concentration.

  Michael was perplexed. ‘I will escort you to your car, Lady Rowan-Hampton,’ he said, opening the door. Grace walked past him with her chin up, a gratified smile curling the corners of her lips.

  Outside, the sun was on the wane. The tweeting of birds filled the air with the sound of summer. A light breeze drifted in over the cliffs. Michael turned to her, his face cast in shadow. ‘What’s going on, Grace?’

  ‘I’m converting to Catholicism,’ she stated simply.

  Michael scowled. ‘The devil you are,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh, I am,’ she insisted with a smile. ‘Your mother is helping me along my spiritual path. Father Quinn suggested I come and talk to her. She’s an inspiring woman.’

  ‘You’re not going to convert to Catholicism. Sir Ronald would divorce you.’

  ‘Ronald won’t know,’ she said breezily. ‘As you’re well aware we lead very separate lives. That suited you once.’

  He pulled a sympathetic face. ‘What’s this all about, Grace?’ he asked gently.